There's a reason we stopped caring.

Two things:

First: I had to endure one of the most painful baseball games in the history of throwing small objects for entertainment. The game itself was genius. My girls came in the 11th inning and put the royal pain not only on the Tigers, but some bloated flesh eating announcer that had spent the better part of 4 hours spewing scurrilous venom towards the girls in pinstripes generally, and Derek specifically.

Would not shut up about the error in the fifth which as we have already established is entirely subjective. And by subjective I don't mean taste in wallpaper I mean pulling a name out of a hat. Said absolutely nothing about DJ getting hit with a ball in the sixth, and kept referring to DJ as though he were some sort of invalid because of his hurt paw. Some brute nearly pummeled Cano while this toad extoled the virtues of good clean baseball. I am not sure who this mofo announcer was, but he did his best to sound like he knew less about baseball than me. No small accomplishment.

And Pudge. This announcer was so far up Pudge's ass the poor thing had a grimace on his face the whole game. At one point Pudge flubbed a catch allowing a runner onto third. Announcer said "Oh Well, no harm no foul." Uh What? Beer Can Cock. Just had to say that. Anyway enough about that. Good game. Bad commentating.

Second: Maybe I was in a bad mood because of the above referenced baseball game, but Sin City came across as several shades of dumb. Quite an accomplishment for a black and white film. And what is up with that? I admit it was stylized, but not in a way I care about. Not in a David Lynch way. In A Robert Rodriguez way. Meaning: Bust out the slurpees and caramel corn cuz you in for a ride Quentin Tarantino considers raw and edgy. Well Nearly.

And the cast. Jessica Alba, Rosario Dawson, Elijah Wood, Bruce Willis, Powers Booth, Clive Owen, Josh Hartnett, Benicio Del Toro, Brittany Murphy, and I am sure Ashley Olsen had a cameo. The whole thing smacked of tunnel vision zeitgeist bullying. I leave out Mickey Rourke whom I worship. Oh and there is going to be a Sin City 2 so this must be hittin with the True Religion Track Jacket crowd.

Common just common. I demand more from my movies. I demand boy butt!!! Robert Rodriquez could learn a thing or two from the people that gave us Varsity Blues. Brilliant film.

Some positive news: Production is underway on the third season of Battlestar Galactica. No more rumors of Ben Affliction starring in the new Star Trek. Martin Margiela to participate in Haute Couture Week in Paris. I'm having an acceptable hair day.

If you are feeling guilty you probably meant it.

I am a little rusty at this, but I will try my best.

My weekend started as so many weekends do. A trip to the 99 Cent Store where it was a to-the-death contest with the poor smelly and newly arrived over something called speghattini. I emerged victorious, but predictably without the one thing I went for in the first place. Wrapping paper. I had one hour before Birthday Brunch and I still didn't have a pinch of wrapping paper. The seven El Charo cheese enchilada dinners were nice though. So actually my weekend started with two trips to the 99 cent store. Bizarre.

Brunch was delightful. Mimosas, cheese, pastry, kinder eggs, and fruit. RAB adored my gifts or at least he said he did. Following brunch we went down to Sunset and had a couple of beers at Good. My hosts, not knowing I will buy absolutely anything on a buzz took me into a boutique where I proceeded to buy Coup de Ville sunglasses, 80 sticks of incense, and an adorable jumper for my niece.

Bar hopping came later. A charming leather bar called the Gauntlet II. The first Gauntlet had apparently closed its doors. Charming in terms of the decor, but nary a decent face to fuck. My host told me that she initially mistook this bar as a friendly biker bar. Right. Rainbow flags, pink triangles, and bare chested bar tenders. They grow em sharp down here in the southland. We had a nice laugh, and I assured my host I wasn't laughing at her I was merely laughing because of her.

Tiki Ti was tragic. I complemented this boy on his Bathing Ape shirt. He was hysterical and told all his friends I liked his shirt. Please. Ye Rustic Inn was a natural experience, and the Drawing Room was simply there. Akbar kept shifting in and out of my consciousness, and I knew I would have to go to bed soon.

The following morning was all about quiche and the Yankees. I got stung by a bee! I am quite immune to their venom. A quick trip to Amoeba where I picked up two more seasons of Voyager, and I stood in line behind a bleeder. I could tell because of his hanky. I can't believe people actually cruise at Amoeba. Actually I can. The rest of the day was spent squarely in front of my television where my multi-vitamin and vicodin treated me nicely.

Monday morning was all about quiche and the Yankees. My Derek sprained his paw in the fifth and had to be taken out of the game. Click here if you would like to read about my brave little camper.

Back at work and I don't have many more of these mornings to look forward to. I packed up a lot of my stuff over the weekend in preparation for the move. I had to stop once my cat became suspicious . He screeched at me, and I thought he was going to eat my leg. If I pack up one thing a day I should be ready to move by October. Animal tranquilizer anyone?

Whatever you're into is probably the new power boat. I'm not interested in how you try to keep up with the Joneses. The fact that you're trying is what's cute. You can either appreciate cultural shifts or be consumed by them.

Klangmaschine.

I never thought there would come a time when I actually missed the prostitutes. This morning I arrived at my bus-stop and on the bench I could see an arm and a leg. Naturally they were attached to a body, but the mound was hunched over in such a way I just assumed it was dead. There was some twitching. Little movement. I really wished JEC was there so he could take a picture of me nonchalantly enjoying a cigarette next to some poor soul who is not long for this world. Absence and proportion.

Derek had a day off yesterday. He is one hit from becoming the 8th Yankee to reach 2000 hits. A somewhat weird statistic, but these baseball people are more fervent than Trekkies when it comes to documenting their obsession. Derek spent his off day drafting a new journal entry. Click here if you would like to read it. He gives some nice insight into what makes him the most attractive player in the American League.

Tomorrow is my good friend RAB's birthday. We will be doing a nice brunch and who knows. Maybe we will get tattoos or something alternative.

Tonight on CBS, Connor is going to be guest starring on a show called Numb3rs. Like all shows with Connor as a guest star I am sure it is 5 shades of suck so don't watch just because I say so. Stargate Atlantis is not bad, but face it, it is not Galactica. Does anyone know when the second part of Season 2 of Galactica is coming out on DVD? Does anyone know where my Season 1 DVD is? How about my Jarhead DVD? I know whoever has them will eventually read this. I'm not fussin though.

Have a great memorial day weekend, and break out those white shoes bitches!!!

The wood that launched a thousand ships.

The douche-face Taylor Hicks emerged victorious from the Coca-Cola sing off last night. I was blissfully unaware of such a debacle until I received a voice-mail from RLP. She was in hysterics, about what I should probably not divulge, but it was tangentially related to the sing-off. I immediately turned off the nightmare of a Clive Owen movie I was torturing myself with, to experience the complete and total colapse of faith I once had for American style. Throw them to the Dogs! I'll have none of it.

Fortunately my Yankees fared far better than the ears of the Fox viewing public.

Much work to be done today. Quite a bit of shopping as well. I would love to stay and chat, but other matters require my attention.

All my best.

The Suffering Of Ages.

Sometimes while at work I feel I am being outwitted by a Cannon XP laser jet printer. It is all I can do to stay one step ahead of the Cannon.

Last night I exchanged some very demented text messages with the author of the sister blog. I can't be sure, but I believe he was convinced that his mobile phone had taken over his central nervous system. The text messages eventually ceased so hopefully his phone told him to get his hallucinating ass to bed.

Saw this movie Red Eye last night. Stupid, dumb, nonsensical, brainless, inane, deficient, mindless, nonsensical, obtuse, witless, pointless, puerile, dull, foolish, half-witted, idiotic, imbecilic, irrelevant, laughable, meaningless, dim, ludicrous, stolid, thick, trivial, unintelligent, and moronic. I din't even like story.

Click here to watch Derek Jeter's interview with David Letterman. Derek has the most adorable laugh. And if anyone says anything about supergay, amazing-homo, ultra-fag, etc., your ass is going to be moderated off this blog so fast it will make your freaky head spin.

Just kidding. Feel free to speak your mind.

Actually the battle of wits with the Cannon XP has left me a little drained. I think I am going to spend the rest of my day on youtube. I should give a holla out to my brother. Today is his birthday. I'll call him tonite.

Click here to watch Chokeback Mountain. As you might imagine it is YET ANOTHER Bareback Mountain parody montage. *Emphasis Added. If you read the comments below the video it was obviously created by some Red Sox bigot who thinks the best way to deride my Derek is to insinuate he is a homosexual. And homosexual with someone other than me. Just hurtful.

But then again, all the Bareback parody montage films are the product of small bigot minds. If you don't believe me, just read the Celluloid Closet by Vito Russo to gain a deeper understanding of how small you really are. Here's a primer. Homosexuality is in no way independently funny. Most jokes need a punchline, and if "gay" is the punchline, well you get the idea. The joke isn't funny. It's only funny to you because you think gay is funny. For instance, this parody "works" only if you think the idea of two men having sex is hilarious. Conversely

Oh my, I am getting myself all worked up over nothing. Watch the film, and enjoy the images. They are stunning. But not funny. Some of the pics you have already seen before.

The good lord just made me this way.

Yesterday I was, through no fault of my own, dragged into all manner of ugliness. It was part recovered personal property, part custody dispute, and part asylum hearing. People think I am cool under pressure, but dealing with that during the day, then coming home to watch my Yankees lose to the Red Sucks is almost more than I can bear.

So there was a small detail about this weekend that I forgot to mention.

While at the house party in San Pedro. You remember the house party in San Pedro? Our host decided to turn the conversation to the most useless artifact. A 4 X4 piece of wood roughly 18 inches in length. Our host had gingerly sanded the piece of driftwood with some gauge of sandpaper. I don't know you would have to ask JEC, but there was something uniquely funny about the gauge of sandpaper our host used. Anyway back to the gingerly sanding part. Our host had sanded it to where he was reasonably certain that you could rub the wood in any way and for any duration and not get a splinter.

Surely not?

Was my initial thought, but not in the way you think. Surely JEC had not brought me to a place where I was expected to speak intelligently about a piece of wood. There were demonstrations. For a brief moment I contemplated throwing myself off the balcony and spending the rest of the evening connected to a morphine drip. But I learned long ago that it is best to pick your battles so I feigned interest in the driftwood. Big mistake.

After a few hours and several beers our host and several guests got it in their inebriated minds that it would be fun to bring the splinter-free driftwood to some vato cholo bar. Those of you that have witnessed my powers of persuasion won't be surprised with this little bon mot:

"There is no fucking way I am going to that bar wielding a piece of driftwood."

The issue soon became moot. Given enough alcohol the average human quickly develops the attention span of a Chihuahua. Our host and guests quickly forgot all about the driftwood and the bar the moment someone mentioned carpet. This gave JEC the perfect opportunity to abscond with the driftwood. Why he did this was of no concern, I was simply overjoyed that all of a sudden manslaughter had ceased to be the order of the evening.

Seven shades of thrilled to be leaving San Pedro, we giddily raced back to Long Beach driftwood in tow. Where you can pick up this story below at The Pike where I, refusing to be one-upped by anyone with a beard, stole a beer glass.

Fastforward. Yesterday.

I am reading a friends blog and I am startled to realize that someone, her name is not important but it rhymes with cotton spittle phoney, is planning on returning the driftwood to San Pedro. Since I am still convinced that we barely escaped with out lives, or at a minimum without a felony indictment, I am understandably concerned. This link here will take you to further discussion on this issue. And I apologize if yesterday's discussion thread became confusing for some.

P.S. Following the jump, please disregard all discussion of cross eyed boyfriends. It is way way beside the point.

And if you get a sec. click here. I'm feeling nasty and I want to destroy you.

Sinking slowly into empathy.

Looking back it is hard to imagine how else it could have happened. The weekend started Friday evening and I saw I had received a package. Inside was the delightful CD whose artwork you see above. A Life Without Fear by Ekkehard Ehlers had concluded its 3 day journey to my mail box and was now playing on my stereo. Delightful. This recording can be distinguished from previous recordings in that it retains a great deal of organic sounds such as guitar and vocals. Some of you that may have reviewed this blog from the beginning will note that this blog is in fact named after an E.E. composition from the album Politik braucht keinen Feind.

This weekend was Long Beach Pride Weekend. The train ride to Long Beach was a low class fiasco. Noisy loud passengers. Yet the various language and dialogs created a gentle wall of white noise that lulled me to sleep. I awoke on the outskirts of Long Beach and phoned JEC. JEC arrived just in time. We went to his place where we changed into our Beach clothes. A couple of hours hanging on the beach admiring the hetero-talent. Went back to JEC's, showered changed, Collie came over, and we left. Drinks and food at a delightful Lebanese restaurant called Open Season. Open Season. Not a gay bar, but a restaurant. Who knew. While eating Collie expressed an awkward interest in my lisp, and I made him feel guilty

Came back to the apartment and decided to crash a house party in San Pedro. Who on earth goes to house parties in San Pedro. For a while we were the only three people there, but eventually other people arrived. I was not in the mood to let anyone else select the music. Collie was convinced that JEC and I were in a snitty mood and he was prolly right. JEC took some photos. Click here to see them.

Went to the Pike, stole a beer glass, and argued with JEC over the merits of Bareback Mountain. I essentially agreed with him, but sometimes I think he tries to be contrarian for the sake of being difficult so I need to test his conviction through analytical discourse. After several drinks is usually the best time for such an exercise.

Woke up the next morning in a considerable amount of pain. The hangover coupled with dermal dysplasia meant that the most essential goal would need to be brunch. JEC and I went to Champagne brunch at Acapulcos. JEC told our server it was my birthday so they brought me a sombrero and rice pudding and sang me happy birthday. No one looks good in a sombrero. If you don't believe me go see for yourself. Link has been removed.

The weather was lame so we decided to watch the DaVinci Code. Don't ask. I went to Long Beach for Pride and wound up watching a movie. So typical.

Woke up early this morning. At my bus stop someone had ran over a fire hydrant and a 30 foot fountain of water was gushing from the ground. I am pretty sure it wasn't a metaphor.

There is a fine line between flattery and mockery.

I love Sir Ian McKellan. I mean I have always admired him, but after this flak with the DaVinci Code, he has just been elevated even higher. It's too bad he is an actor. As you probably know a reporter at Cannes asked him if The DaVinci Code film should contain a disclaimer indicating that it is a work of fiction, and his reply was that he often wondered if the bible should have a disclaimer indicating it was a work of fiction.

Not really all that controversial of a statement, but oh how some people have taken their indignation and posted it for all the world to see. On an US Weekly blog some carbie wrote that Ian was nothing more than an atheist, and that he was in danger of losing something like 99.999% of his "viewers".

This got me thinking which is something I rarely like doing. Atheism is not an insult. Atheism is a belief held by a great many people, and it is not an easy belief to hold. It isn't easy merely because of the ignorant persecution indicated above, but ironically because it requires a great deal of faith. Faith in humanity, which believe me is not always easy.

Secular humanism holds that human beings are essentially both good and evil, and attributing the best and worst of our qualities into an unknowable and unattainable God or Devil separates humans from their most admirable qualities. Taken to an extreme it effectuates an inability for humans to relate to themselves and to others, and to the natural world. Spirituality (Christian or otherwise) can be seen as little more than a common bandit, robbing humanity of something special, and leaving nothing in return save a few fanciful rituals and superstitions.

Now I am not saying anything new here. In fact I may be quoting Marx's Grundrisse. Maybe it's the German Ideology? It has been so long since I have read Marx, but that isn't the point people. Forgive any inadvertent plagiarism.

And please forgive me because my blog has gotten just a little too heavy recently which I know is declasse. But this whole discussion arises from some very upsetting news.

You may need to sit down if you haven't heard.

Marissa died on the OC last night. The most troubling times for atheists is perhaps during the death of a loved one. What ever will become of Marissa? How will the kids on the OC cope? Naturally we all have to wait until the fall to find out, but we can only hope that with a little faith in humanity and themselves they can find the strength to come to terms with such a profound loss.

None of this probably makes any sense. You see I cut myself shaving this morning, and I think the blood loss is having an effect on me. Cursed anemia.

Subway series this weekend!!!! Oh and Long Beach Pride or something.

Caedic Yainwert.

Last night I received a rather cryptic and vague text message from my buddy. It said "Youre prideful" [sic]. Now my buddy (his name is not important) has a penchant for the vague and cryptic, so I did not think much of it. My response to his text message was appropriate and biblical. But this morning I was thinking about it, and I am assuming he was referring to either the raging queerness or the Yankees.

Now the Yankees goes without saying. I mean it is Pride, Power and Pinstripes almost every evening at my place. The raging queerness usually happens later. Now I have been told by some that I tend to elicit apprehension so it is only natural that people feel comfortable not speaking to me plainly, and of course by speaking I am referring to texting, however, it is academic since I have no idea what he meant. Probably nothing. But I'm going to go with the raging queerness.

Evolution is not a theory. It is an observable and fundamental scientific principle. Many scientists believe that the human population has already breached the caring capacity of this planet, and even minor calamities like tsunamis and earthquakes will simply be unable to kill enough people fast enough in order to reverse the damage. Put simply, the human race is effectively extinct and there is not a damn thing anyone can do about it. The birth rate simply outstrips the death rate to a staggering degree, and given the present population, the amount of resources consumed by the average human, the amount of waste produced, and just the ambient strain on the environment human life causes there is no conceivable way this planet will continue to be able to support human life. There may be a possibility that the planet can support some form of complex life in the distant future, but that is sterile conjecture.

Mutation is also an observable phenomenon. Given these population pressures, it is entirely conceivable that the raging queerness is a defense mechanism against the population explosion and the resulting environmental strain. I will not burden this blog with a discussion of the prevalence of the queer mutation in urban vs. rural areas. A fascinating topic to be sure, but one that warrants separate consideration. Given the stressors human population causes, and the inherent gratification of sexual activity, it seems natural that the human body and mind would evolve to accept same-sex non-reproductive sex as something enjoyable. And given advances in genetic engineering and cloning the day may come quite soon where primitive heterosexual reproduction is rendered obsolete. A needless strain on the female body, and in many instances life threatening.

So to the topic of pride and the raging queerness. You are motherfucking right I'm proud. Look around you, then wake up and kiss the future because it looks a hell of a lot like me, not you.

Because if these doomsday Malthusians are wrong, and even I am skeptical in my more optimistic intervals, then non-reproductive homosexuality is not merely a quirk to be "accepted" by our generous hetero counterparts. It may very well be essential to human survival.

But like I said. I have no idea what my friend was talking about. It just got me thinking in the shower this morning.

Seacrest out.

Signal Jamming Propaganda

While I was walking home from the subway some woman surreptitiously handed me a pink pamphlet. Now I know that anytime anyone hands you a pamphlet it is going to be about God, or some new age counterpart. As I looked at the pamphlet it read.

"Are you curious about yourself?"
"Would you like to know more about yourself?"
"Would you like a free personality test?"

No no no no no no, as soon as I read that last line I threw the pamphlet on the ground, looked across Sunset Boulevard at the Scientology compound, and just shook my head in disdain.

But it got me thinking about another cult. A cult almost as devious and surely just as boring. It would be the cult of Louis Vuitton. Lulus is what I call them, and they are multiplying, and it is high time I put down in writing all the ways that Louis Vuitton sucks wicked bad.

To help focus my thoughts I thought it would be helpful to make a list. I hate lists, but I love making lists. Here goes.

Reason Number One: Louis Vuitton is everyone and everywhere. I am pretty sure that is a name of an album, but I believe it is an apt description. Everywhere you look, there it is. Imitation or genuine, and given the high quality of the imitation, and the insatiable Japanese market for knock-off LV it makes no difference. I don't want what everyone else wants. If I am going to shell out a lot of money for something, it is not going to be on a Ford Focus. And face it. Louis Vuitton is as common as a Ford Focus. As tired as Coldplay, and as overdone as Madonna. No thank you.

Reason Number Two: The Louis Vuitton monogram is a walking label. It advertises itself which no matter how you slice it is just tacky. It is the new check, which was the new red stripe. It just feeds on itself, providing the only atmosphere that Lulus are capable of breathing. There are far more higher quality accessories out there that do not make such a point of announcing themselves. Hermes, Asprey, Goyard, the list is endless.

Reason Number Three: Closely tied with reason number two. It is not polite for me to ask how much something costs, so don't tell me. I have Le Catelogue. I know how much the entire LV line costs. It's online. It's no secret. Tacky and common. Tacky and common. I like my luxury items to be subtle. I do not like them to announce how much I paid for them. So in addition to being a walking label, it is a walking price-tag.

Reason Number Four: Jessica Simpson took her monogram bag camping with her. Enough said. Anything that sack of rocks can't live without is something I definitely can flourish without.

Reason Number Five: The LV monogram functions as both a social signifier and as a class distinguisher. But not in the way it is intended. It is a social signifier in that when someone rocks the LV, one can determine, based on the remainder of the outfit a great number of things. How much money they make, how much money they would like to make, how long they had to save to buy the thing, how much money they would like people to think they make, and most importantly the degree to which their wardrobe has suffered as a result of such an expenditure. The LV monogram functions as a class distinguisher in that it demonstrates how little class you actually have. It embodies class consciousness at its most base. Common just common.

I could go on, but I think you get the point. One caveat is that Louis Vuitton makes a number of items that do not advertise themselves. The taiga leather line is one example. But a lulu would never think of buying something in taiga. What's the point? Who would know you were rocking Louis? The only point of purchasing luxury items is to let people know you purchased a luxury item? Trust me, the way the mind of a lulu works is maddening, and I advise you not to spend too much time trying to understand them. Just try to spill something on one. Something sticky. Try to get it on their LV. See how they react. Priceless. Entertainment money can't buy. Irony that can't be returned for store credit.

My favorite thing is forgetting.

"Oh Give Me Strength !"

I am sure that is what Derek is thinking in this picture. He has to endure so much during any given game. Just last night he was charged with an error by some sweaty overeating half-blind umpire. As everyone in an adjoining unit in my building could attest to, I was quite shaken. I was going to consult the official rule book about these error rules, but unfortunately The MLB Official Rule Book is not organized along the same lines as the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure. Phone calls were made and I was assured that errors are entirely subjective. Well I would imagine so.

I was going to spend this blog discussing how horrid Louis Vuitton is. A topic I know I have been skirting for some time now. But after yesterday's atrocity I think it is important to focus on positive things.

So while we are on the subject of positivity I have added a link to Han Cholo on the left. I did this because now you can order his jewelry and apparel online. This is some of the bad assest shit around, and now anyone, not just Angeleans, can acquire a trinket or a shirt. The Cylon ring is one of my personal favorites. Prices range from the quite reasonable to the quite decadent. Anyone who knows me can walk into this boutique and see that it is basically just a magical playland for me. Star Wars and BSG memorabilia everywhere, and jewelry fashioned after such sci-fi icons. It took me a while before I "got" the name. He's Mexican. And a Star Wars fan. Han Cholo. Get it? I love it when I get it.

I almost forgot. While you visit the site, make sure the sound is on because the sound effects are part of the fun.

Glissandi is my word of the day. Don't ask me why. No one will ever have any use for such a word in daily conversation. Oh but my friend at work just used the word fricken' in conversation, like "it is just one of those fricken' days". I fricken' love it! But it is not on dictionary.com so it can't be a word of the day. Rules are rules. And my rules aren't subjective like the fricken' error rules in baseball.

I think your accent sounds fake in cute way.

My alarm was so loud this morning I think it scared everything decent and pure right out of me. I'm serious. It sounded like demons from Hell screaming at me. I need to remember to turn the volume down on that thing.

Yesterday I watched the special Mothers Day Yankees game, and it was a treat. The Yankees lost, but Yankees on a Sunday morning is a wonderful thing regardless. I purchased MLB extra-innings so there is going to be much more baseball in my future. Loads and loads of pinstripes.

Last night I actually watched network TV. Simposons, Family Guy, and American Dad. Since I do not normally watch channels below 51 I am a little out of touch. Did you know there was an X-Men movie coming out? I din't. I screamed like a little girl. I worship Patrick Stewart. I despise the Hollywood industrial complex, yet I admire the way it cosumes and spits out vacant young starlets. You may want to watch the OC this Wednesday and see how Hollywood gives the royal F-U to Mischa Barton. I don't think I am spoiling anything or telling you anything you don't know when I say she is going to die.

Brief music update. Went to Amoeba Saturday morning and picked up 5 Cds for Forty dollars. What Are You On? by East River Pipe takes a little getting used to, but it pays off in the end. The cleverly titled Crystal Queen shows that even straight boys can be clever when they lift lines from old episodes of Queer As Folk. Druglife is a story of a boy who dumps his girlfriend after she throws away his bong and percocet. Genius. Don't try to change me baby.

Band of Horses is a gorgeous band who have made a gorgeous album Everything All The Time. His vocals are as pretty and incomprehensible as Liz Frazier's. Funeral is my personal favorite at the moment.

I do not think I could live with myself if I didn't at least mention how frustrated I get with Amoeba. I mean I could not get Jóhann Jóhannsson. Not even close to obscure.

"We can order it for you."
"Yeah, I can order it for me too."

Frustrating. I can't wait until I have access to Seattle's Wall of Sound.

Literary Update. I have begun reading Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey. I know it is awful that I never read it in college, but better late than never. I finished reading The Thief's Journal by Jean Genet, and all I can say is that he wrote this while in prison, and their is not an ounce of prison sex. None. There is ugly gutter sex up the ass (forget about it), but no prison sex. Shame. No really. Beautiful, evocative, sensuous, all those words. Sure. Ribald is my word of the day.

Come into the darkness.

"either male or female they gotta go. gotta exit. gots ta do it. both male and female gotta get out. they both do"

-- Homeless Guy On Bus Blather 05/12/06

As you might imagine I had a colorful trip to work this morning, and since we are on the subject of blathering. Some people called KTLA News ambushed me this morning. Someone at work calls them channel 5. They had the camera and the lights, and their questions. Privacy. Expecations of Privacy. The war on terror, and like at 140 WPM I just verbally vomitted my opinion on this subject. Was I coherent? I doubt it. But it was 6 mother frackin a.m. mind you. Do I think my name has been put on a list? Well yes, I think I may have blurted out enough far left mumbo jumbo ideology to get my name on some kinda list. I'm sure KTLA is owned by Rupert Murdoch, or Uniliver, or Saudi Arabia.

Unfortunately (you like how I am capable of spelling out words) I think I may have been coherent enough for them to use some of the more inflamatory footage. Luckily it is network TV. Which I do not watch. So I have nothing to worry about. I won't even see my breakdown. I honestly felt like a rat in a cage.

But now I know how Derek must feel. Click click flash falsh questions questions, it just never ends. After one question, they ask another even more inane question. Then another just to keep you on your toes. With the lights in your face, and those can't be very flattering unless you're Derek. It goes on and on, and my coffee. Can't you see my coffee has not even been sipped. Click click flash flash.

It was a nightmare.

My Yankees lost, but I am still rockin the shit out of one of my favorite Yankees jerseys. Oh and that is what is going to be on the televesion. Oddly literate and nervous Yankees fan speaks on issues of Constiutional privacy and the War on Tar. News at ten, blah blah blah.


Lates Bitches

I need a drink !

I thought you found your soul under the bed.

The Yankees beat the Red Sucks last night 7-3. I only got to catch the last two innings, but it was better than nothing. Certainly better than that National Treasure bullshit Netflix sent me. I will honest to God sue those bozos back to stone-age if they ever send me anything that stupid again.

I am going to order Sunday's game. You know the one with Derek swinging a pink bat. So big homo-pink baseball party at my place Sunday. Come one come all.

News is not all good however. You may remember me speaking about the new Star Trek movie, and how I was mildly displeased with the projected plot. Well......

I have it on good authority that Ben Affliction is being considered for the lead. What was once merely an annoying miscarriage of film generally and the Star Trek franchise specifically, is now perilously close to becoming an unwatchable fiasco.

I want you to read the next few lines carefully, and it is vital that you understand me. Ben Affliction must not be allowed to be involved in this film. All other concerns are secondary. I know you understand me.

And on that note escutcheon is my word of the day.

There was a time when I would have believed you.

I may have been less than honest yesterday. There is some more advice worth giving you. This advice is more for my work place carbie counterparts than anyone else, but it bears mentioning nonetheless. Do not eat the pretzels in the vending machine. They are not for you. They are for me. How and why I know this is beside the point. Suffice to say the pretzels, like most things, are there for a reason, and your consumption is not it.

According to this SOURCE, and many others, my Derek and other Big Leaguers will be swinging pink bats on mothers day to raise awareness for Breast Cancer. It is just so sweet it almost brought a tear to my eye, but then I remembered it is not about me, it is about how cute Derek looks swinging a pink bat.

Destroyer last night: The opening bands were a let down. The first band Hudson Bell were by far the best, and by best I mean the least irritating. These boys hail from San Francisco and are obviously fond of Mogwai, but when the rhythm guitarist and singer keeps losing his guitar due to a faulty guitar strap, it is not a good thing when it doesn't effect the music. They had the unison hop down to a science, however, and regardless of how derivative, they have managed to derive an interesting sound.

That can not be said about the second band Psychic Ills. Since they hail from NYC it seems redundant to go into specifics as to why they suck, but I can type fast, and this is a subject I feel strongly about. I am sure someone in this band is among the four or five people that think Gang Gang Dance is the new Hugo Largo, but this is LA, and we do not believe in being artistic for the sake of being boring. With no sense of song structure or melody, it was a pseudo-psychedelic drone of a show that took interesting moments, and turned them into moooooooooments. It was like watching a five year old child that makes someone laugh do the same thing over and over to elicit the same response. After a while it is just embarrassing.

Little can be said about the third opening act Blood On The Wall other than they were obviously channeling the Pixies, but the last time I checked the Pixies weren't dead. They get got some applause for trying.

Destroyer was in a word stunning. Their sound was impeccable, and they played most of the new album. If you haven't picked up Rubies you should really do something nice for yourself. And if you get a chance to see them in person you should try. During the entire set I was lamenting the fact that I could not physically kick myself for the times I could have seen them, but managed to convice myself that television was my oldest and dearest friend.

As for the crowd and the talent. I made a little more effort this time. I did wear a vintage shirt. Vintage YvesSaintLaurent, but vintage nonetheless. It still clashed a bit with the theme. As I was standing in the smoking lounge it hit me like a ton of bad plaid that when these people say vintage they mean Strawberry Shortcake talking Gloria Steinem down from a bad acid trip vintage. I get points for trying. I think. Don't I?

On a separate, but not unrelated note. The whole At The Drive In hair is a bad mother frackin idea. White boys do not look good in afros. White boys do not look interesting in afros. White boys do not look sexy in afros. White boys do not look complicated in afros. I could copy paste and replace that sentence with all manner of adjectives all day and each sentence would adequately reflect my feelings about the At The Drive In hair. Don't do it! It makes me want to strike you!

At work, and luckily I slept in because when I got here I learned that the caca had hit the proverbial fan causing one hell of a shit storm. I won't get into it since I learned it all second hand. But as I gather, accusations were made, names were called, and characters were assailed. It's fun watching lawyers piss in their own sandbox. I'm kinda sad I missed it.

I almost forgot. Vainglorious is my word of the day.

Whiskey makes everyone more attracive. And that's no jive.

I hate hate hate hate hate being outbid on ebay. Luckily that did not happen this morning and I have some new tat on the way. However, bidding closes this Thursday on this little piece of tat my heart desires above all things at the moment, and some precocious little scamp has decided to bid on it. The nerve. The temerity. Some people will never learn. I wish there was a way I could projectile vomit through my computer screen. Until such a time when technology catches up with my hearts desire, I will content myself with purchasing a low priced item from this vixens e-store, thereby securing his/her mailing address when the package arrives. And when that happens I will give his/her information to the Scientologists, and let those freak nuts do my evil bidding for me. This should serve as a warning to anyone who would even think of bidding against me.

Well now that that little outburst is out of the way I can tell you the real news of the day. At this very moment (please note below for actual date and time) my head is being filled with the delightful sounds of Northern, the new album from Taylor Deupree. It came in the mail yesterevening, and since I pre-ordered I received a wonderful set of postcards containing the artword you see above. I think this will soon become my favorite Taylor Deupree album. The minimal glitch is very pretty and soothing. And as I've said before it is certainly not for everyone, but it certainly is for me.

Tonight is the Destroyer show at Spaceland, and although it is a late show on a school night I have decided I am just going to turn off my alarm, and roll into the office tomorrow whenever my body and mind tell me it is safe. Of course I will have to endure to sneers of the overweight langorous pit-viper previously mentioned, but having a social life has consequences, and those consequences can only be soothed by the overwhelming and blind harassing power of the Church of Scientology. Neologism is my word of the day, and if I could give any of you any advice worth giving it is this: Don't ever ever ever ever ever bid against me on ebay.

I found it in the parking garage

I swear this is not a Yankees blog. Over the weekend I found a Mets blog, and it looks a lot like my blog except it only talks about the Mets, and of course there is a nasty Derek rant. Over-rated, over-hyped, blah, blah, blah. I am beyond giving a shit.

Islands show Friday night, and the opening acts really got my attention. Cadence Weapon is a sweet Canadian hip-hopper. I saw him after his set, and believe it or not I was mildly star struck by a Canadian. I was smitten when during one of his songs he dropped this line:

"I used to write for pitchfork. I'm really sorry about that."

How can you not love that. I saw him after his set. I said it was really good. We exchanged a palm slap and it really hurt.

Why? was the other opening act, and as part of the anticon collective, a lot of people were at the show to see him. It would seem that I had heard him before. I knew there was something familiar.

There were some bullies in the audience. One of them took his shirt off, and was trying to start trouble with this twee-boy. I was wondering where in the eff these analog vatos thought they were because most of the boys at this venue would rather be darning their over-used cardigans than brawling in a club. There was no shortage of talent in the audience, but I could not help feeling out of place since I recently had a haircut, and I was wearing absolutely nothing from the thrift store.

Saturday morning was all about recovery. Brunch at BBG cafe, and in keeping with the spirit of my new side project I have to say: Great plates, horrible tables. Some B-list Silverlake sell-ebrities, but none of them are in Star Trek so who really gives an eff.

Watched Batman Begins, and I enjoyed it. Watched Paradise Now and I enjoyed it even more. Watched 12 episodes of Star Trek Voyager and the confluence of emotion defies description. Tapioca would have to be my word of the day.

It just came to me during a state of terror.

Click HERE for what I am sure is to become the premier culinary destination on the web. I have also added a link on the left. I have been told that I am to be commissioned to write restaurant reviews for this site. I am confident that in no time I will become the most feared vegetarian on the west coast. Growl.

My first act as contributing writer will be to declare that if you are a “small plates” establishment then you would do well to give it up and start cooking some real food, and by real food I mean an entrėe. You know what an entrėe is? It is what some cooks place in between the third and fifth course, or if they are adventurous in between the fourth and sixth course. Actually once you learn the fine art of combining foods in such a way as to make an appealing "entrėe" the permutations are endless.

No one had better even think of serving me cheese before the entrėe because I know better.

Macrobiotic is short for don’t know how to braise a lamb shank and I’m sad I’m so fat. California cuisine is short for bobo pedestrian and I’m sad all my money can’t buy a palette. Franco-Mexican is short for fun and tasty with a bad name, and “small plates” is short for just plain sad. Post modern afro-asian fusion is something I just made up. I am practicing already. You like you like.

I think the key to being a good food critic is 5 parts imagined knowledge of cuisine, 2 parts clever-word play, 1 part canned condescension, and don't be stingy with the toast bread. But like any good chef I think I may mix it up.

Tonight is the Islands show, and I am excited like a mouse. Unfortch* I will not be able to write about it until Monday, but I promise to take extensive notes. Perhaps we will be lucky enough to secure a table at the Factory, but since it is Friday night I am not going to hold my breath. But if fortune shines on us perhaps I can offer a taste of what is to come at vivoessum.com.

Have a great weekend, and keep your noses clean.

* I honestly think the shortening of words is the new cross out, but I just had to try it.

It still wouldn't make me laugh.

Click here to read the latest entry in Derek’s journal and if you need any further proof that he may be one of the pur-sweetest guys around.

Last night I went to a Dodgers game with my friends K & C. All in all a fun evening, although I have to point out two things: First, baseball fans are a rowdy bunch, and they run the gamut. At one point when the Dodgers were pulling a pitcher that allowed three runs, one boy threw so many gang signs in a four second period I thought he was going to sprain something. All I could think was “Ooh, get her.”

Second, the Dodgers organization has to be commended for taking so many special needs kids under their wing and offering them fulfilling employment. At first I thought K & C were just being snitty when they were describing their experiences at concessions, however, when I went up to locate the smoking lounge, the first “person” I came into contact with was a toothy pasty sniveling “thing” who looked at me in a way that communicated, and not in a subtle way, “My Parents Are Sibs And Their Ain’t A Gosh Gollicky Thang You Can Do About It !!!”

Shaken, and left with no idea where to find the smoking lounge, I went back to my seat and waited for the Dodgers to render the remainder of the game irrelevant. The Dodgers lost 11-5.

At work, I have reassumed the role of opening and unlocking all of the office doors, and remarkably, I have managed to do it all in 83.5 seconds. Sadly I have already been besieged with questions I could honestly care less about. Someone is clearly reading my rolled up newspaper. Which is not to say I have become blasė about my work. On the contrary, I enjoy my work and I have become exceedingly efficient at it. It is just that my work is performed on an as needed basis, and on a need to know basis. If I do not care about something it is because I do not know about something, and if I do not know about something, it is because I do not need to know about it. It is sublime really, but I can't get through a day of work and not think of the Architect. Homeostasis is my word of the day. As in “I have more important things to do then concern myself with your homeostasis”.

Someone forgot to tell you I don't care.

As one would imagine, watching NCIS was a soul deadening affair. The premise, so much as I can gather, is that a group of meticulously groomed government super ninjas protect the United States’ borders from such things as international narco-traffickers and incredibly considerate kidnappers. Last night the director of NCIS was abducted and dragged to a private airport. Not a single hair on her head was out of place and her make-up was flawless. I could only assume that the government would be uninterested in acquiescing if the kidnapper made their director look like a gussied up tramp. I mean the woman stabbed someone in the neck while trying to escape, and not a single bead of sweat, and her suit remained perfectly uncrumpled. I thought the show was over right there. How can you top that? I’ll tell you how. By spiraling into a stupider and stupider story line and killing off the only character that made me tune in in the first place.

Yesterday I consumed more dim sum than any single person ought to. My co-worker and I met her husband and a former co-worker at the Empress Ballroom. I just love eating at a place called the Empress Ballroom. My co-worker and I share a mutual disaffection for our workplace. Why this very morning I had to re-write something in bright green magic marker because of the mounting evidence that my co-workers are unable or unwilling to read ballpoint script. Sometimes it just takes my breath away. I won’t even get into the door handle. Suffice to say, it has proven to be one of the most challenging pieces of engineering this office has ever faced. How many lawyers does it take to unlock a door? You don’t fucking wanna know.

I am beginning to think it is just stubbornness. Kinda like my cat. My cat knows it displeases me when he pulls out my sweaters and uses them as binkies, but he just keeps doing it. No amount of reprimand is sufficient. It is much the same way in an office environment. In a last ditch effort to cling to the final shred of my sanity I have decided to treat the carbies as I would any adorable domesticated animal with a mind of its own. I will stop short of cuddling and pats on the head, but I have invested in a squirt bottle, and I am keeping a rolled up piece of newspaper on the credenza next to my desk. Will this new strategy succeed? Pleonasm is my word of the day.

Lucien was walking by my side.

Tuesday has the dubious distinction of not being any other day. Friday and Monday are what they are. Thursday is (as the doorman at my work says) Friday eve. Wednesday is affectionately referred to as hump-day. Whenever someone at work makes a reference to hump-day I always have to stop myself from saying "What? Here?". Although constituting an entire rotation of Terra Prime, Tuesday remains absolutely unremarkable.

Now to the business of this unremarkable day.

Tonight at 8:00pm PST on CBS there is a show called NCIS which I have obviously never watched, however, this evening my Connor will be guest starring on the show and an otherwise pointless television program becomes watchable. Voila.

Second, my bombers lost to the Red Sox last night, but it is still early in the season. I did learn that Boston fans seem only capable of communicating their thoughts through a series of grunts, moans and boos. Like Gorillas they is. They even point. Even the younger fans seem to draft their signage at a reading level far below the national average. That being said, Boston does have some very cute players that I am confident they will soon lose to teams that are not the new lame. Jonny Damon looks fetching in a Yankees uniform by the way, but who doesn't? You could stick Tom Likes Cock Cruise in a Yankees uniform and even I would not yearn for his dismemberment.

You may click here, if you really want to be bored. It is a bloated and wandering critique of modern music recording processes. Some interesting information, but since the author focuses his critique entirely on Rock & Roll the article eventually collapses under the weight of its own limitations. Rock & Roll is of course a lower form of music. Perhaps sub-music is the best way to describe it. Fun? Yes. Quaint? Yes. Deserving of an article of this size? No. There is a wall next to my desk that warrants closer examination. The fun thing about Rock & Roll is that it is so unmessy. It should need no explanation or examination. Once you start down that road Rock & Roll ceases to be what it is, and becomes something else. Perhaps it becomes Tuesday I don't know. Drukqs is a highly underrated album.

Nothing I just said should lead you to believe that I am a fan of Jazz. I am far far too interesting for that. And I really don't have the hair for Jazz anyway. And as one very important Rock & Roll musician said about Jazz, "It's Going Nowhere".

For something decidedly less prosaic than the above referenced article, click here for the Strangers With Candy motion picture trailer.

The above picture is a picture of my old/new home. I lived there for several years before I moved to Los Angeles. I am moving back toward the end of June. I think once I get there I am going to ask the landlord if I could plant a half dead molting non-indigenous palm tree in the courtyard. The funnest thing about Los Angeles is that even the plant life is non-indigenous. It tells you something really. Nothing actually belongs here. I think that is part of the charm, I will miss LA nonetheless. Propitiate is my word of the day. Not very challenging I know, but it is still more than Tuesday deserves.

The sweet sweet smell of stoicism.

My trip to the UPS was not as traumatizing as one would think. My visit to Akbar was as most visits to the Akbar are. I have to give myself props (props I think is what the fat kids are saying these days) because I only spilled Guiness on one person, and since he was my friend I am not sure if it even counts. And if someone could design a bar with entirely flat surfaces it really would never be an issue.

You all may want to sit down for this.

Some flaming retarded douche sack by the name of John Dewan has published something called The Fielding Bible. In this sordid and meandering piece of trash he tries to make the case that my Derek is the worst fielder in the league. He employs a methodology which he has convinced himself is actually a methodology. Sociologists expend a great deal of energy on being irrelevant. Gaze on this you no neck vacant face anamorph. I have no idea if anamorph is really a word, but I digress.

Anythen, his amazon.com sales rank is right up there with the crazy smelly fuck mess at Cal that distributes Hakim Bey pamphlets by day, and substandard hand-jobs by night. Which I don't think is to say that people don't care about baseball, they just don't care what this homo fag has to say on the subject. You can talk smack (another word courtesy of the fatties) all you want, but not about the cute players, and certainly not about players with asses so mother effin fine that it makes the almighty herself step back and say "Goodness, can I cook or what. Shoot."

The people in my office are talking about something called basketball, and whatever the frack it is it is leaving me very very cold. Naturally coquetry is my word of the day. I have added some links on the left of the screen. You may want to check some of them out since it nearly killed me, and by extesion 27 of my coworkers, trying to figure out how in the hell to do it. You know, if you get a sec. No biggy.